


Too Close for Comfort

by Thescarredman



Category: Gunslinger Girl
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Gen, scifi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thescarredman/pseuds/Thescarredman
Summary: Sandro and Petra switch from hunters to hunted.





	Too Close for Comfort

Alessandro moved through the woods, the pistol in his hand feeling strange and uncomfortable. Petrushka walked three steps behind, probably more dangerous with her hands in her pockets, Sandro thought sourly, than he would be with a Skorpion in each hand. But he felt compelled to go armed nonetheless. Somewhere ahead were dangerous men with bad intentions.

Having read three books on the subject didn’t make him an expert tracker, but it had rained the day before, and it didn’t take much skill to follow their quarry’s bootprints in the damp earth. The ground was hilly as well as wooded, with sudden steep inclines and declines, and Sandro could see several places where the men ahead of them had slid and lost their footing. One might almost think the Padania foot soldiers were blazing a trail for their pursuers to follow.

He and Petra had been vectored in by field command towards a pair of fleeing FRF operatives, and had found their abandoned vehicle by the side of a gravel road with its doors open, and tracks leading into the trees. They’d parked their own car and followed.  
Hunters and hunted were in a hurry. Sandro could see by the long strides and deep heelprints that the two were walking fast. But they weren’t running. They were moving as if they had no time to waste, but not because they were fleeing pursuit. His suspicions gained weight when he saw a third set of prints join the first two.

“Keep an ear cocked along our back trail,” he said in a low voice. “And keep quiet.” He wasn’t worried about anyone hearing Petra’s footsteps – his ’borg was eerily light on her feet, and stepped along the damp leaf-strewn ground as daintily as a deer – but, alone with him, Petra sometimes had trouble keeping her mouth shut.

He reflected that this location was nearly ideal for a walk with a pretty girl. The air was cool, but not uncomfortably so, as long as he was moving. The trees weren’t quite fully leaved yet, and blue sky and fleecy clouds brightened the view of the craggy mountains visible through every break in the foliage. The path would be just wide enough to walk side-by-side, holding hands with their hips bumping at every step. Very nice indeed. He looked back at the pretty redhead following him with a Taurus nine-millimeter in her hand, looking for someone to shoot, and she gave him a little smile before her eyes resumed their sweep of their surroundings. He turned his attention back to the trail ahead.

They came to a clearing. He stopped at the edge of the woods and looked over the dilapidated farmstead beyond. The farmhouse was built of fieldstone, as was the bottom story of the barn; they might have been erected a hundred years ago or a thousand, and looked tight and solid, if in need of paint. But there were weeds growing tall in the drive, and the state of the fences told him that no livestock had been run here in a very long time.

If the Padania suspected pursuit, this would be a perfect spot to make their tail and ambush it. “What do you hear? See anything?”

“Birdsong.” Petra swiveled her head like a search radar. “I just heard someone grunt, the way you might if you slipped and fell down. But it’s coming from the other side of the woods.” She smiled. “And I think he dropped his gun.”

“Are they moving?”

“The sounds are getting fainter. They’re moving deeper into the trees.”

“Just passing through, then.” Sandro was now sure that the three men were hurrying toward something, not away. Staying in the cover of the trees would lengthen his and Petra’s walk to the other side by half. If these men were headed towards another car, he might lose them. He started out into the open. “Let’s go.”

They beelined for the other side, taking fences as they encountered them. Sandro climbed over carefully, grumbling at the sight of his cyborg using some odd scissor kick to flit sideways over the chest-high railings without touching them, as easily as if they were half a meter tall. The house and barn were nearly in the center of the clearing, and they were nearly between them when Sandro heard a shout ahead.

Petra said, “Sandro …”

“I heard it.”

“No. Behind us, too.” She swiveled her head. “And all around.”

Now he heard it too: men calling to one another in the woods, echoing. “How many?”

“Eight, for sure ... ten.” She turned her head again. “Twelve. Maybe more.” She looked at him. “They’re all coming this way now. Trap?”

He shook his head. “They’re not trying to be quiet. I don’t think they know we’re here.” That could change in an instant, if someone came out of the woods and saw them; a minor miracle it hadn’t already happened. Neither the farmhouse nor the barn would be defensible by two against a dozen or more. They needed to get out of sight. He considered. The farmhouse? If this was a meeting, it would be the first place they’d go; if it was an ambush, the first place they’d look. “The barn, quick.”

The big barn was as tight and dry as he’d expected, and just as deserted. A broad aisle led straight to the back from the doors, and stalls lined the long walls, but there was no sign of animal husbandry. The strongest smell was of hay; clumps of the stuff lay strewn about the floor. But it was flat and dusty, as if it had been there for a long time. Sandro guessed that the barn had last been used to store bales of the stuff years before.

He called Jean. “We’ve got a bit of a situation. The two you sent us after just met up with a bunch more. Probably more refugees from the safehouse raid, but I’m not sure.”

“What’s their position relative to you?”

“Pick a direction. And they’re already too close for comfort.”

“Find a good spot to observe, and report their movements.”

Sandro reminded himself that Jean Croce was a smart guy; he just didn’t fully understand the situation. “They’re moving straight towards us, all of them. Even odds they’ll find out we’re here in the next ten minutes. We’re going to find a good spot to hide, now, and wait for lots of backup. You can locate us through our cell phones.” He disconnected and shut off the phone. So long as the battery was in and charged, it would still signal its location to people who knew how to ask, but he didn’t want to risk an incoming call giving them away. Petra was giving him a wide-eyed look that he would have thought was quite fetching, if his stomach wasn’t knotting up. “Shut off your phone.”

She complied. “Some of them are in the clearing. I think they’re headed for the house.”

They were stuck in the barn, then. He turned about for a quick survey. There wasn’t much to work with in the big open space broken only by the walls of the horse stalls. The loft, maybe? Quickly he ascended the ladder for a look. It was as he’d expected: a broad expanse of plank floor, bare except for a few tufts of hay. As a hiding place, it would work only if the searcher went no farther than sticking his head in the door for a quick look around. Sandro thought about the tracks they’d left leading right to the barn door, and hustled down the ladder in search of something better.

At the far end of the aisle, against the back wall, stood a very large wooden box with a hinged lid – a feed box. It would be plenty big enough for the two of them; it was also the first place a searcher would look.

“I think they’re all in the clearing now.”

He could hear them too: men calling back and forth, questions, answers, orders. They were moving in, perhaps setting up another refuge. They’d be sure to examine the barn.

Gather the hay into one big pile and hide inside? That would take time, and he didn’t think it would work. His attention returned to the feed box against the wall. Maybe if they pulled it away just enough to squeeze behind, the searchers wouldn’t think to look, just lift the lid for a peek and go away. It sounded like wishful thinking, but they were running out of options – and time.

He got his fingers between the back of the box and the wall, and pulled. The box moved a few centimeters and stuck, probably caught on an uneven floorboard.

Petra said, “What are you-”

“Wait.” He supposed he should have just told her to do it, but it was his idea, and he wanted to see to it himself if he could. He moved around to the front, slid his fingers under the lid, and gripped the front edge. He pushed up, grunting, trying to lift the front of the box off whatever it was stuck on.

With a crunch, the plank gave under his feet, and he was falling. He let go of the box, flailing, and grunted again when his feet hit solid ground with his knees still above the floor. He stumbled, barked his shins, and nearly flattened his nose against the box.  
“Sandro?”

“I’m all right. Give me a hand up.”

He pulled the broken boards free, creating a hole big enough to stick his head and shoulders into for a look around. The barn floor had been laid across heavy wood beams on the ground, maybe twenty or twenty-five centimeters square, and spaced a little closer than shoulder width. But the two framing this cavity appeared to span a dry stream bed that ran under the building. Two centuries of horse piss falling through the cracks, more likely. But the stony ground was dry, and whatever had caused it, it had created a cavity about the size of the inside of a coffin.

“Sandro, they’re in the farmhouse.”

Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought. “Pull the box to the edge of the hole, so you can reach it after you get in. Then pull it over us.”

“Right.” A second later it was done. She slipped into the hole like water, and raised her arms, looking at him. He was puzzled for a moment until he realized just how tight their hide was. There was no place for him but on top of her. She was going to have to reach past him to maneuver the box. And, after the box was on top of them, there’d be no place for her arms to go but around him.

He huffed and shook his head, then eased into the opening feet-first and face-down. Careful as he tried to be, he couldn’t avoid putting a knee into her belly, then her thigh, but she didn’t protest. He scraped his back on the underside of the floor planking as he scooted down. He placed his elbows on the ground on either side of her, trying to keep some of his weight off her.

Her arms were on either side of his head, bumping his ears with her elbows as she lifted the box and walked it over the hole. It scraped his back and forced him against her. Then the box thumped down, and the light disappeared. Her arms settled around his neck with her forearms crossed under his shoulder blades. He felt her knees separate, and his slipped to the stones.

Petra’s eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. There was still a small amount of light leaking from between the ancient floorboards, adequate to her needs, anyway. Sandro’s eyes stared blankly, and she realized that he was still wrapped in blind darkness. She thought of telling him she could see, but decided not to; it seemed more fitting that they share the discomfort. She closed her eyes. “Sandro?” She whispered. “Are you okay? You’re breathing funny.”

“There’s no air in here.”

There seemed to her to be plenty of air. Maybe it was different for cyborgs. She wished she could give him more room; that might ease his breathing. Could she deepen the depression a little? She shrugged her shoulders, trying to scrape away some dirt beneath her, but it was packed solid; all she succeeded in doing was to dislodge a grape-sized stone to roll down the hollow of her spine and lodge in the small of her back. She arched her back a little and rolled her hips, trying to move it aside.

Sandro hissed, “Love of God, can’t you lie still?”

She froze, embarrassed. “Sorry.” Now, besides the stone in her back, something was pressing into the inside of her thigh. Sandro must have put his gun in his pocket, she thought. She hoped the safety was on.

They lay in the dark, not speaking; she listened to the muffled sounds above: voices, doors opening and closing, footsteps. She heard the barn door open and shut, and they held their breath as they heard footsteps on the planks. The one in front of the feed box creaked. There was a thump, and the footsteps headed for the door.

More time passed. Sandro’s face hung above her, never more than a hand’s width away. She could feel his breath on her face. She remembered the time they’d played lovers in his car to fool a roving Padania assassin. She remembered the feel of his hands and lips on her. She remembered a fleeting thought that the Padanian had moved on too soon. Sandro’s head dipped, bringing his face closer. She licked her lips, which suddenly felt big as pillows. The slightest move of her head would bring their mouths together, just a blind accident in the dark…

Sandro trembled. That was puzzling; surely he wasn’t afraid. She had never seen him afraid. Then she realized that only his arms were shaking. Muscle fatigue. He’d been supporting himself on his elbows since they’d gone into the hole.

“Sorry,” he said. “I can’t…”

Her hands found the back of his head and pulled him down. She tucked his nose into her neck. “Sorry. I should have noticed.”

“Why should you? You don’t get tired.”

“You’re my handler. I’m supposed to know when you’re hurting.” She went on, “It’s okay. I think I can control myself.” When he huffed, she said, “Was that funny?”

“It should be, in a sane world.”

A little while later, his breathing slowed and deepened, and she smiled up at the floorboards.

Gunfire woke them both.

Sandro raised his head, listening. She said, “Should we…”

“Yes. Get us out of here.”

She reached past him and pushed, hard. The box tipped over to fall against the wall. Then it fell on its back, sliding forward and covering the hole again. “Oops,” she said and walked it off. The gunfire continued.

Sandro planted his palms back in the dirt just as a man’s voice above them said, “Got them.”

Sandro froze for a moment, then said, “Roberto?”

“None other. Silvie, watch the door.”

“Right,” came a girl’s voice. More gunfire outside, and the sound of motors.

He lifted his head. Roberto stood over the hole, SIG 550 in hand. At the door looking out stood Silvia, his first-generation cyborg. Petra lifted her arms, freeing Sandro to climb out. He started to rise, and his trousers caught on a stray nail driven through the floorboards, and he had to stop and free them to get out. He flushed, thinking what that must look like. He had to put a knee into Petra again; she put out a hand to steady him as he pulled his legs out of the hole. “Roberto, I-”

The man raised a hand. “Don’t,” he said. “You’ll only make it worse. Give your girl a hand up.” His attention returned to his phone. “They look fine. You sure you don’t need us?”

He helped Petra to her feet, still in the hole, and hung on to her hand until she stepped out. It wasn’t too hard a task: she weighed more than a girl her size should, but no more than he did; he imagined the child in the doorway weighed more than either of them. Her fingers lingered in his palm a little long, he thought, and he withdrew his hand and turned away. He brushed at his clothes. “Who else is here?”

“Enough. The fight’s over. The bad guys are down or on the run.” The man was looking past him. Sandro turned and saw Petra fussing with her hair and clothes, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“Petra,” Roberto said, “would you go see Silvia? She’s been worried about you. Give her some reassurance, will you?”

The girl smiled and headed down the aisle to the doors. Roberto watched her go. “Alessandro, who suggested you give her a boy’s name? Jean?”

“Several people, actually. Jean, Marco ...”

Roberto scoffed. “The man who named his girl ‘Angelica’. I suppose he thinks he’s learned something since then.” He watched the two girls talking at the door. Petra was petting the smaller cyborg’s head and smiling. “I’m not going to spread any stories, Sandro. And I won’t be looking sideways at you if I see her take your hand.” Petra retrieved a small tube from her pocket and applied it to Silvia’s lips. “They’re not hunting dogs. Even Jean knows better than that. It’s just easier to think of them that way, for some people at least.” His face blanked. “She’s forgetting things. It’s only been three years. Too damned soon.”

Sandro felt cold. “Isn’t there something they can do?”

“Oh, they have plenty of things they want to try – once she’s too far gone to be an effective combat unit.” Sandro saw the muscles under Roberto’s ears jump. “They must think I’m the one with the bad memory. How many times have they told us the effects of conditioning are cumulative and irreversible? I know what they really want to do with her.” He turned back to Sandro. “I’ve been doing this almost as long as Marco. For what it’s worth, here’s my advice for handling a cyborg and hanging onto your humanity.” He turned back to the door. Silvia’s shotgun was slung across her back, and the two girls were hugging. “Use her as you must, Sandro. But make her as happy as you can. And when she starts to slip away … don’t let them drag it out for their research. Don’t let her die lost and afraid. Find her something quick and sudden. You owe her that much.”

Two hours later, after the bodies had been removed but before the forensics people were done, Roberto said to his girl, “Getting on towards supper time. What say we head into town?”

She smiled like sunshine. “Sure.”

Their car lay along a service road on the other side of a small woodlot. They traveled through the woods side by side, in no hurry. Roberto felt a small cold hand brush against his, and he grasped it.

Silvia said, “Berto … that lady who was so nice to me. We’re friends, I know that. But I can’t remember her name.”

“You know, I can’t either.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. “People forget things all the time, Silvie. Don’t worry about it.”


End file.
